


Heat

by Xyriath



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Angst, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Second chapter warnings for, or like, pain pollen, the cruel and sadistic cousin to sex pollen, torture sort of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1722968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim needs to be touched.</p><p>Leonard helps in the only way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on tumblr [here](http://xyriath.tumblr.com/post/87461261362/but-jim-wanting-to-be-held-because-he-loves-being). Multichaptered fic because I have a companion piece in progress to go with it.

Leonard noticed it within a week of getting to the Academy.

The very first day they had arrived, in fact, it had begun, with Jim hurrying up beside him, fresh and shiny in his new cadet reds, and clasping Leonard on the shoulder.

He had jumped, of course, and then glared over at the face that took him a few moments to place through the nasty hangover.

“You.  Kirk, right?”  It took a few more moments for him to recall the shuttle ride, drunk as he had been, and then flushed.

“Yeah, Jim.”  The kid was grinning; luckily, he didn’t seem to be angry about yesterday.  “Got myself some new shoes and I’m doing great.  How about you, Bones?”

“Hungover.  The hell does Bones mean?”

Jim just grinned and patted the middle of his back.  “Drink some water.  I’m late, I think.”

“Already?” Leonard called after him, but Jim was already hurrying away.  Leonard rolled his eyes, walking off and not expecting to see Jim again.

It turned out, however, that they had three classes together that first semester.

Leonard knew, from the moment Jim Kirk plopped down in the seat next to him, patted his bicep, and practically crooned, “All I got left is my bones,” that he was stuck with the kid, so he might as well, y’know, pay attention.

And after several days of observation, of deft fingers resting lightly on Leonard’s waist to move him, of affectionate grasps of his arms, of a slightly increased pressure on his shoulder, he was certain: Jim Kirk lived for physical affection.

And it was surprisingly easy to give.  He had never been an especially touchy person, but that seemed to evaporate around Jim.  And the way Jim would lean into his touches, the hand on his wrist, the arm around his shoulders, made Leonard wonder exactly what it was that caused it, the near-desperation with which he would gravitate towards Leonard’s touch.  There was so much about Jim Kirk that was a puzzle—a carefree demeanor and a blatant disregard for seriousness juxtaposed with the flat, closed-off expression that was nearly as solid as a glass wall that could snap up at a moment’s notice, at the oddest provocation, ranging from an irritated remark that Jim hadn’t finished his vegetables to the story he told about his mother trying once to fuse Southern and Tamil cuisine and their Thanksgiving ending up involving Chinese takeout.  The fact that while he was perfectly happy to insert himself in Leonard’s life, waiting in his dorm when he got back from classes and leaving more clothes in the closet than Leonard himself had in there, he deflected with a joke, a sharp remark, or by simply ignoring him.

Leonard found out, on a drunken night that Jim later revealed was his birthday, along with far more details than he had likely meant to spill.  After Jim finished, Leonard wordlessly slipped an arm around his waist to tug him close.

When Jim rested his chin on Leonard’s shoulder and looked over at him with his brilliant blue eyes, cheeks just barely touching, and Leonard had to fight off the urge to lean in and kiss away the haunted expression as he ran his fingers through Jim’s hair, he was certain of another thing: he was very much in trouble.

And, six months later, when Jim grabbed his shirt and yanked him forward into a kiss, Leonard buried his fingers in Jim’s hair and decided on another thing: he didn’t care.

—

Leonard thought that the news would be all over the Academy within two days—the infamous, promiscuous son of George Kirk, in a relationship with a hick doctor who was quickly approaching thirty (though Leonard tried to ignore that part with a vengeance).

He had underestimated exactly how much their prior interactions had resembled dating behavior.

When Jim put an arm around his shoulders as they walked across campus, no one batted an eyelash, not even when Leonard leaned into it far more than was strictly platonic.  When Leonard embraced Jim after stumbling out of his medical practical final and mumbled into his shoulder that he wanted to go home now and spend the rest of the day wrapped around him, not a single person raised an eyebrow.  The hand-holding raised a few eyebrows, but it was such a gradual transition that the first time Leonard took Jim’s face in his hands and kissed him full on the mouth in the middle of campus there was much less gossip than he had expected.

And so Leonard gave Jim what he needed.  He got a few good-natured jibes from coworkers who pretended to be surprised that he and Jim could actually manage to appear in places separately, given that they were pretty sure they had to constantly be in contact.  It was worth it, worth the steady, burning warmth of Jim underneath his fingers on a wrist, his hand on a side.  Worth the way Jim invariably leaned into the contact, the craving that had been satisfied practically vibrating around them, providing a semisheer wall between them and the rest of the world

They spent Leonard’s thirtieth birthday in bed.  It started with Jim arching underneath him, a gasping masterpiece on which Leonard performed his greatest work, and ended with Leonard’s face pressed into the pillow below him, adoration in Jim’s crooning tone as he whispered precious declarations into Leonard’s ear.

And always, throughout, there was reverence in Jim’s touch as he handled the gift Leonard strove to give him, the intimacy that simply came from the solid press of their skin together.

And as he saw Jim accept it, take it and hold it close, Leonard realized that he needed it too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of a companion fic than an actual "sequel" chapter.
> 
> Blame [this prompt](http://xyriath.tumblr.com/post/87621347667/but-jim-being-on-the-end-of-a-pollen-that-makes-being) for spurring it.

Jim let out a scream at Nyota’s hand on his shoulder, meant to be steadying but instead shooting waves of pain through him so intense that nausea swept his stomach.  Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to realize that the contact was what had caused it, and she held on long enough that Jim had to wrench away, rolling to the side and vomiting as the agony subsided.

“Don’t touch me,” he gasped, coughing and choking on the dustlike pollen that coated his face and chest and lungs.  He was shaking, the taste of vomit burning his lips and distracting from the burning that lingered     on his shoulder.  “It hurts,” he managed to get out, the pain cracking his voice.

He could hear Nyota yelling into her communicator—”Beam us up immediately, and prepare a spot in the medbay for the Captain.  He’s hurt.”—but he couldn’t focus for long enough to pay too much mind to it.

Just his shoulder.  That was—strange, he thought, in an odd, floating way around the burning gathered there.  Where Nyota had touched it.  He clenched his fist experimentally, wondering if it was the pressure that had caused it, but there was nothing abnormal about it.

The pain began to clear, and he took deep breaths as he wiped the vomit from his mouth and stood shakily.

“I’m okay,” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again.  “I’m all right.”

But Nyota and the rest of the away party were watching him worriedly, and the golden beams began to swirl around them all before Jim could protest further.

Bones was waiting for them all, large hazel eyes wide with concern for his Captain (for his boyfriend) and he reached out immediately to pull him into his arms.

“What’s the matter, Jim?”

Jim couldn’t reply, not really; he only managed to get out a scream as his body set itself on fire, engulfing him with cruelty and pain in the form of the one person he loved the most.

And Bones didn’t stop.

“Jim, Jim, please, darlin’, please tell me what’s the matter,” he begged, voice breaking in panic.  His hands, those steady hands that were everything to Jim, represented the only things truly good in this world to him, held him tighter, and Jim could only scream at the burn where they touched, curl in on himself and pray that Bones would stop touching him, pray that it would subside.

Jim would later learn that it was Nyota who pulled Bones away, who left him gasping and writhing in the middle of the transporter room in a fashion that seemed to be excruciatingly cruel but ended up being the only thing that allowed Jim Kirk to be able to breathe again.

When the pain subsided—nearly everything had hurt this time, everywhere Bones had touched in his frantic, unwitting assurances that Jim was alive—he was able to stand again, though shakily, and look at them all, taking a deep breath.

“I think I need to go to the medbay.”

—

The words alone had probably been an enormous, screaming red flag for Bones.  He knew the extent to which Jim would go to get out of going to the medbay, and his desperation to get there hadn’t just alarmed Bones, but the rest of the crew as well.

Several minutes of jerking away from assistance while making pained noises later, Bones put it together.  Jim knew he had fallen in love with the idiot for a reason.

“It hurts when someone touches you, don’t it?”

Jim gasped, still shaking from where a well-meaning ensign had tried to offer him assistance by placing a hand on his back, and nodded.

“Oh.”  Bones’s voice was soft, compassionate.  “All right.  Let’s get you into one of these beds, darlin’.  Other pressure doesn’t hurt, does it?  How ‘bout when you touch yourself?”

Jim just shook his head, jaw clenching as he tried to contain the residual pain.  It wasn’t even the worst thing he had ever experienced (courtesy of his uncle), and he was able to drag himself to his feet and his body to medbay—very vehemently without help.

By the time he got there, he was still shaking and nauseous, but the pain had subsided, at least mostly.  There was still the occasional twinge and, more rarely, a stab that had him doubling over and needing to clutch the wall to support himself.  Bones’s hands jerked whenever that happened, as if he wanted to pull Jim to him and hold him until it stopped, but both of them knew that was impossible.

Jim tried to ignore the hard knot in the pit of his stomach as he settled back on the biobed.

—

An hour later, he was gasping, trying to drink water from a cup he was holding in two trembling hands, trying to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth.  Bones sat several feet away, expression tight as he tried not to look at Jim.  The endeavor of drawing the blood had been excruciating for the both of them—physically for Jim; psychologically for Bones.  Jim’s throat felt raw from the screaming.  Bones’s eyes looked haunted from it.

“Any luck?” he finally choked out after he decided that the water was a lost cause, watching Bones run his fingers through his hair.

“I… not yet.  It ain’t like anything I’ve ever seen before.  It looks like it ain’t gonna be permanent, but…”  He swallowed.  “I don’t have anything that’ll stop it immediately.  An’ I don’t know how long it’ll take.”

“You’ll figure out something.”  Jim’s voice was more confident than his hands.  “I know you will.”

But the hours—the days—passed, and Bones came up empty-handed.

It was torture, lying there, trying to focus on his PADD while the man he loved most in the world stood feet away, the physical impossibility of touch separating them as inexorably as a solid wall.  Jim caught himself watching Bones more often than not, the worry lines deeper than he’s ever seen them, creasing his face as he worked himself nearly to, well, the bone trying to come up with a cure.

Jim’s eyes settled on Bones’s hands, a hungry, almost desperate expression in his eyes.  He wanted them, wanted to feel their deft surgeon’s touch, wanted them to rest on his arm or squeeze his side or take his face gently as Bones’s lips pressed a gentle kiss between his eyes.  He ached, from the days without contact, wanted to curl up with Bones, wrap his arms around Jim and stay there for as many days as he had been consigned to this misery.

Bones looked up and saw him watching, then stood to come to the side of the bed.  He grabbed one of the bars, Jim’s turmoil reflected in his eyes, sorrow compounding the misery he felt.

Jim was released the next day, not cured but with the nature of his disease there was no reason that he couldn’t return to duty.  Hell, all the better if he could keep himself occupied with work and his mind off of his current miserable situation.  He ignored the concerned glances, the whispers of the crewmembers who were probably concerned that he would drop dead at any moment, and sat in the chair for the first time in days, barking out orders.

“Warp factor six.”

“Captain…”

“Yes, mister Sulu?”  Jim’s voice was keener than one of Bones’s scalpels, his eyes an icy blue.

“Never mind, sir.  Engaging warp drive.”

—

The third night Jim was back in their quarters, he woke up screaming.

“I’m sorry!” Bones blurted, pleaded, over and over and over, voice cracking.  Jim wanted to take his hands, tell him It’s all right; I forgive you; I love you, but he couldn’t, could barely see around the red blurring his vision as he curled in on himself, shuddering at the agony those hands had just put him through.

Bones sat there, that haunted expression in his eyes, combined with frustration and anger at himself that he couldn’t help.  He couldn’t do a damn thing, and Jim knew it as he lay gasping on the bed, the agony finally becoming manageable.

“I’m…”  The word came out raspy, hoarse, nearly incomprehensible.  He swallowed, trying again.  “I’m all right.  It’s… it’s going away.”  Even those few words were an effort, and he lay there, eyes closed, as he tried to remember how to breathe.

“I… I think I might need t’move to the couch,” Bones said, when Jim was well enough to open his eyes.  “So I don’t try t’grab you in my sleep again.”  From the tone in his voice, it sounded like he might as well be asking to transfer to a different ship.  Jim thought that might be less painful.  He just nodded jerkily.

Bones gathered the blankets and settled onto the couch as Jim shook in a ball on the bed.

In the morning, however, it clicked in Jim’s head that Bones’s touch, while still unbearable, hadn’t hurt as much as it had a week ago.

“It’s wearing off,” he told him, voice almost desperate with relief.  “It’s slow—god, I barely noticed—but it’s going away.”

“Thank god,” Bones breathed, and reached out to hug him.  It was only Jim’s flinch that stopped him at the last second.  “Right.”  He cleared his throat.  “Sorry.”

Three weeks in, he no longer wanted to die whenever Bones touched him, but he still couldn’t manage contact for any length of time.  After the end of a particularly difficult shift, he dragged himself back to their room and curled up on the bed.  He wanted nothing more at that moment than to wrap himself in Bones’s arms, kiss on his neck, smell his aftershave and feel the stubble on his cheek, but he knew that he couldn’t.

A jolt of pain shot through his chest, and for a moment, he thought that Bones had touched him.  But no, this wasn’t the burning agony that had become so familiar.  It was a hollow emptiness that made him curl up tighter, made him gasp and choke and, finally, sob into the pillow.

After what felt like hours, he heard footsteps next to him.  He must have missed the door opening, because when he looked up, hiccuping and shaky, he could see a pair of hazel eyes, full of sorrow and compassion, staring down at him.

“I hate this,” Jim whispered, shoulders shaking.

Bones’s expression twisted in a pain that mirrored Jim’s.  He reached out, catching his hand at the last moment, fisting it and lowering it back to his side.

“I know you do.”

—

Four weeks in, Leonard sat at four in the morning in the medbay, staring at the compound he had just synthesized, eyes bleary from lack of sleep but wide with hope.

Four weeks and a day in, Jim woke up to feather-light kisses on his face.  He gasped, the implication catching up with him, and threw himself into Leonard’s arms, pressing their lips together, hands grasping his arms, his shoulders, his face.

“I love you,” Leonard murmured, adoration in his eyes.

Jim beamed, pressing their foreheads together so their noses just brushed.

“I know you do.”


End file.
